


Fate's Funny Like That

by benrumo



Series: Inquisitor Cesare Lavellan Desperately Tries Not to Ruin Everything [7]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Desire Demon(s) (Dragon Age) - Freeform, M/M, The Fade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-19
Updated: 2015-05-19
Packaged: 2018-03-31 06:26:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3967846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/benrumo/pseuds/benrumo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The impossible just seems to keep happening around Cesare Lavellan. Dorian summons magic far beyond the capabilities of any mortal in a desperate attempt to save the man he loves from a routine outing in the Western Approach gone suddenly wrong. But it wasn't just Dorian who did the summoning. All Dalish grow up hearing the tales of uth'nadas, fated pairs destined to live as mortal embodiments of divine love. Could the impossible magic they performed together really mean this old folk tale is as true as the corruption of the Golden City? But what stories did Dorian hear growing up? Can Dorian believe that the Creators have chosen him as surely as he believes Andraste chose a Dalish Herald?</p><p>With rumors of blood magic spreading through the ranks and the threat of mutiny looming overhead, Cesare travels into the Fade to try and put at least some small part of the world right again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Entry for the 2015 Dragon Age Big Bang!
> 
> With art by the fantastic CalypsoTea, who you can find at http://calypsotea.tumblr.com/ and http://calypsotea.deviantart.com/

"Oh, look. Another band of Venatori. And they've got some pet Templars to go along with their demons. Fantastic. Just what I was hoping for," Dorian complains as he makes it around the latest bend in the cave.

You grunt in reply. You don’t have the energy for anything more than that, and what little energy you do have is currently dedicated to scouting out the enemy in front of you.

"You're joking, right? Fuck! How many more of these bastards are there?" Sera joins in once she catches up. "I thought we were almost out of these blighted caves!"

"We are. This should be the last encampment between us and the entrance," you assure her, wondering even as you do if you're telling the truth. The maps of this area had proven less than reliable.

"Let's get it over with," Cassandra says, just as weary as the rest if you.  
  
With a quick glance to make sure that the rest of your companions are prepared, you give the signal. Your warriors advance, driving forward into enemy's forces. Arrows and magic fly past them in support, creating chaos in their ranks long before the first sword swings. You switch from support to forward attack the moment the first demon breaks past your front fighters, carving through twisted flesh with your spirit blade.  
  
Dorian follows close on your heels. Unlike southern mages, he'd informed you soon after he joined your merry little band, mages from Tevinter were trained either to fight alone or at the side of other mages. If he was to learn how to fight alongside the mundane, there was no better mage for him to learn from than you. Mostly because you were the least likely to set him on fire. That was his argument, at any rate. And so the habit had formed. You got used to having him by your side, in more than one sense. You did work rather well as a unit, and no one put up protest at the thought of someone dedicated to keeping a close eye on you on the field. Becoming a knight-enchanter only seemed to improve your partnership, for all that Dorian had previously complained about being uncomfortable around large and very sharp objects being haphazardly swung about in his immediate vicinity. You didn't count, he'd said, because your sword was made from magic. Of course you didn't count.  
  
Dorian chokes the enemies in with a wall of solid ice stronger than steel and you strike them down. They outnumber your cabal nearly three to one, but you're not worried. You've bested giants without much of a hassle. Your companions are strong and the enemy is well-known. Venatori are not the most creative tacticians, you’ve discovered.  
  
"Dorian, go cover Blackwall!" you order once you can see through the rapidly thinning crowd of enemies before you. Blackwall’s pinned down behind a despair demon’s blast unable to defend himself against the lesser demons are rapidly closing in.  
  
"On it!" Dorian immediately calls back.  
  
Arrows whizz past you on either side, but you're more than used to that. You can tell just from the sound of them that they're coming from Sera, not Bianca. You feel the twinge of magic in your palm before you hear the crack of the rift. A pride demon takes the field, freshly summoned from the Fade. You rush towards it with Cassandra and the Iron Bull close at your heels.  
  
"Bring it down fast!" you yell over the beast's roar.  
  
You throw up a barrier over yourself and those near you and focus in on your training. You find the rhythm of the battle in the blows you land against the monster. Each strike of your spirit blade pulls from the Fade, strengthening the barrier around you.  A clawed fist crashes and deflects off your barrier without breaking your focus. This is what all your training was for, facing impossible foes without losing more than your sweat.  When you hit your stride in the heat of battle, you are untouchable.

"There's an assassin on the field!" Dorian shouts in warning.  
  
"I've lost him!" Solas says immediately after.  
  
Your focus never wavers. You feel the demon fading. It can't take much more abuse.  
  
There's a sudden crashing sound as ice forms somewhere behind you.  
  
"There! He’s triggered my ice mine!"  
  
"I'm on it!" Varric shouts.  
  
You thrust your sword into the demon's belly, its form finally weak enough to pierce and destroy. The dance between you and your enemy is over.  
  
" _Cesare_!" Dorian screams.  
  
The knife breaks through your waning barrier and slices through cloth and flesh as if it isn't even there. You feel the sickening, crunching grind as the blade hits bone.  
  
All of the sudden, free mana is everywhere.  
  
The pain is so great you can barely make sense of your surroundings. The assassin who had at first crashed down on you with all of his weight behind his strike now seems to be lurching upward. The blade in your shoulder twists painfully as he tries and fails to take it with him.  
  
The mana is so close, the flow of it as strong as a river with the pull of the spell forcing it into physical form. It sucks you in. You instinctively relax your hold over your spirit, letting it take you where it will as if it's your own spell being cast and not a stranger's. The spell is so close, so large that you can feel it. You thrust your left hand out and without thinking call on the ancient magic bonded to you. It twines in with the force of the spell, instinctively stabilizing the wild magic. You create a thrumming heart right in the center of the chaos, a stable center to make the spell better, stronger.  
  
It's taking your blood, you realize. It's taking your blood.  
  
You let it.  
  
The ice around you keeps shooting up. There's too much, you faintly realize. It's impossible for one person to do this on their own. Is this because you're dying? No, even that wouldn’t be enough. This isn’t your doing. Not yours alone. Where did this magic begin?

The spell is still pulling on you. You have so little left to give, but it’s nearly finished. You instinctively know you can’t stop now. You can’t tear yourself from the other spirit behind this magic. You wouldn’t want to if you could. You’re bonded, fused momentarily through the spell. Twin forces driving and directing the chaos in tandem. You're two halves of a whole now. To fight it would be to abandon and betray.

The drain on your spirit finally cuts off. The loss is a relief that leaves you reeling and faint. You feel a new power take its place, pure energy from the Fade. You focus to observe the magic even as you pull your spirit away. It’s self-sustaining now. That would probably be more concerning if there wasn't still a knife in your shoulder.

"Dorian?" you manage, though your voice is too weak to carry far.

You lean against the towering expanse of ice before you. It's comforting in an odd way, more like cut crystal than ice. You press your back to it, letting it take your weight as you slide slowly down. It doesn't even feel cold. Or perhaps you’re only incapable of feeling the cold. Another concerning thought.

You look around and find yourself caged off from the outside world. Icicles have barred you in from all sides, creating a spherical prison with you at the center. You have no idea how you're going to get out. You drag an elfroot potion out of your bag and down half of it in a single go. You think the risk of healing around the blade is infinitely preferable to the risk of bleeding out.  
  
"Dorian!" you call out again as your head starts to clear, your voice a little stronger this time.

Several voices react to the news that you are still alive and conscious, but there's only one you're listening for.

"Inquisitor? Inquisitor! Maker be praised," Dorian says from a ways away. He sounds exhausted. "Where are you?"

"Down here," you call, "at the bottom of..."

You're honestly not sure how to finish that. You have no idea what the fuck is going on anymore. You're not sure you care either. The potion is helping. You feel less light-headed. Unfortunately, that only means you can better feel the pain.

The icicles graciously part of their own power to let Dorian into your little alcove. Not the strangest thing you've ever seen in your life, but still fairly disconcerting. You are now certain that whatever this is, Dorian had a hand in it. He shouldn’t be using this much magic. He shouldn’t be _able_ to use this much magic, not and still remain standing. And what role did you play in the formation of this spell? You gave more than just your blood for this. You’ve preformed magic in tandem with another, of course, but not like this. There’s only ever one mage behind the construction of a spell. Others can work as support, channeling their mana through the focal mage. But that’s not what this was. You _changed_ the spell from its original casting. That shouldn’t be possible.

Dorian's leaning heavily on his staff as he walks. Given how often he polishes the fucking thing, you take that as a very bad sign.

"Are you hurt?”

Dorian barks out dry laughter.

"There is a knife sticking out of you,” he reminds you.

Point taken.

"Dorian, what’s happened?"

You finally feel clear enough to look around and try and make sense of that's going on. You tilt your head back, though it makes you dizzy. What you’re leaning against appears to be some kind of solid tower. You can hardly guess how thick or tall it must be from where you are. You could spread your arms out and still come short of either side. Thin blades of ice branch off from the tower, curling over your head and down to the ground. You sit at the epicenter, almost as if the magic had formed in response to your presence. Something about the color of it all seems off, though you think that may simply be the massive trauma you’ve recently experienced.

“I, ah… may have gotten a little carried away.”

Dorian tries to kneel down once he nears you, but his strength finally gives way and he more collapses than kneels. His staff clatters to the ground, forgotten.

“What did you do?” you say, reaching out to him with your good arm.

“I’m not entirely sure. I wasn’t thinking properly at the time. I just…”

He stretches out a hand towards your wound. You feel the faintest stirrings of magic before you stop him.

“Dorian, don’t. I’m fine.”

“There is a knife in you.”

“I’m not dying. You just summoned a mountain. You should be dead.”

“I think it’s taking on more of a tree-like shape than a mountain,” he corrects you, thankfully giving up his attempt to heal you. Likely because he has no other choice, you think. He spends what seems to be his last bit of strength twisting himself to sit beside you. “From the outside you can more clearly discern its form. What we’re resting against here is the trunk. Surrounding us are the branches. Oh, look, it’s sprouting leaves now.”

True to Dorian’s word, you can see small, blood red spikes sprouting from each of the icicles closing you off from the outside world. They look at first like thorns before they furl outward into little leaves. Is he still feeding the magic?

“Stop it,” you order, feeling your panic rise. “Enough, Dorian.”

“I’m not doing it,” he promises. “I’m not even sure how much of this was my work to begin with. The initial glacier, certainly. But after that… Something happened. Something with the Fade. It was almost like dancing.”

He felt it too. Oh Creators, what have you done? This shouldn’t be possible.

“Shut up before you faint,” you say.

“Probably wise,” he says, obediently shutting up.

You dig in your bag with your one good hand and pull out a lyrium potion, your last one.

“Drink this.”

His hands are shaking as he takes it, but they’re still stronger than yours. You hope that means he’s not as drained as he should be after all that. Using this much magic can kill someone just as surely as blood loss. How did a fight against less than two dozen Venatori manage to go so wrong so fast?

“Inquisitor!” Blackwall calls from outside your little sphere. You can see him approach through the thin slats between the tree’s branches. “Dorian, let us in.”

“Can’t. Sorry.”

“What do you mean you can’t? Just move the bloody thing like you did earlier!”

“I’m not precisely in control of it any longer. The spell has been cast, for better or for worse.”

Blackwall swears, “Stand back! We’re coming in!”

“Don’t!” you and Dorian shout at the same time, though it clearly hurts you both.

“The construct might react to any sign of hostility. Strike it and it will likely strike back. It seems to discriminate friend from foe, so you’ll want to keep on its good side. Clever, really. Wonder what that means? I felt the Fade in it,” Dorian starts explaining.

Blackwall moves warily away from the branching ice.

“Shut up, Dorian,” you order once more, hoping it sticks this time. Why only now are you realizing how little sense of self-preservation Dorian has? He could be dying and he’s more concerned about giving Blackwall a bloody lecture on the arcane than conserving what little energy he has remaining.

“Great. Just fucking great.” Iron Bull’s voice this time, though you can’t see him.

“Can you get out?” Cassandra asks.

“I don’t think either of us can walk,” you say before Dorian can start rambling again.

“What? I can’t hear you. Speak louder,” Cassandra says.

You don’t have a chance to get the words out a second time. As Cassandra approaches the bars of your prison to better hear you, they part for her just as they did for Dorian.

“What does this mean?” she asks warily.

“It means that the tree doesn’t like Blackwall very much,” Dorian chuckles. “Probably my fault. I’ll apologize later.”

“I will gag you if you don’t shut the fuck up,” you say, very much panicking at this point.

“I’m going to be sick,” Dorian gasps, face twisting. He manages to keep up the fight against his own body for precisely two seconds before he vomits lyrium across the cave’s stone floor. This is not good. You have never seen a mage’s body reject a lyrium potion before.

“Get him out of here,” you order Cassandra. “Bull! See if it will let you in.”

The tree deigns to let Bull in. Between the two of them and the tree’s good graces, they manage to drag you out without further incident. The branches that had surrounded you earlier jerk up out of the ground once you’re outside, returning back to their natural positions. Cassandra cradles you in her arms as easily as Bull takes Dorian. That neither of you protests at this is a fine demonstration of just how exhausted Dorian is and how worried you are.

The scene on the other side of the ice is beyond impossible. If the world wasn’t literally being torn apart at its seams as you speak, you’d say it was the most impossible thing you’d ever seen. It _is_ a tree. It’s a great, towering, hundred year old willow with leaves you think must be made from blood as there’s none to be found around any of the dead Venatori bodies. It occurs to you then that you should have been sitting in a pool of your own blood this entire time. The trunk of the tree should have been splattered with it. You wonder what happened to the man that stabbed you. Is his body a part of the tree now, trapped in the ice?

“Creators, what have you done?” you whisper.

“Do not focus on it for now,” Cassandra say. “We will heal you first, then determine what has and must be done.”

Cassandra carries you all the way back to camp, despite her own exhaustion etching itself clear enough on her face. The healers there determine that your wound will scar but heal quickly enough after a long and thorough examination. The knife is carefully cut out of you with a thin blade doused in healer’s alcohol. You have to keep your eyes pointedly fixed on the cold remains of the campfire as they’re sewing you back together, but even for all that you feel surprisingly hale. You're wounded so rarely you've actually managed to forget how effective elfroot is for blood loss. You down another once the healers are done. You don’t have time to wait for your body to recover on its own.

Dorian seems to have recover somewhat as well. He’s moved from concerningly manic rambling to vocal complaints about a severe headache. The healers had finished with him long before they’d finished with you. So far as they could tell, nothing was wrong with him, save a moderate case of exhaustion. He paced the entire time he was waiting for the healers to finish with you, alternatively swearing at your observable pain and his own. You tried to calm him, for what little good it did you. He shouldn’t be wasting his energy. But frankly, part of you is comforted in that he still has this much energy to waste. It can't be that severe, you think, if he's still able to swear that creatively. Besides, the day Dorian can’t find something to complain about is the day you’ll know the world’s finally ended.

Cassandra approaches not a moment after the healers are done with you. You suspect she means to keep you in camp. By force if necessary. For once you're disinclined to argue with her caution. You have neither the energy nor the motivation.

“We have sent scouts to the area, mages among them.”

“And the reports so far?” you ask. Dorian stops swearing and pacing to listen in.

“The… tree,” she says with some difficulty. You can understand why. “It does not seem to be openly hostile. We have been cautious in our observation of it, but it seems no more willing to harm our forces now than it did earlier. Yet that the magic holding it together shows no sign of abating concerns me.”

“I would ask Solas his opinion on the matter. Where is he? Still in camp?”

“Yes. I will send for him, if you wish.”

“No,” you say quickly. “I’d sooner go to him.”

“Inquisitor, you should not strain yourself.”

“By walking around camp? I’m hardly that weak. The wound was well struck but also well healed."

You spare a glance at Dorian, wondering if he's going to argue. You find him pinching the bridge of his nose and making a particularly pained face. You're not even sure he's been listening, the way he looks. You take the opportunity to skirt out before he comes to his senses and demands to be kept involved. If anyone needs to stay put and rest, it’s him.

Cassandra leads you directly to Solas instead of merely pointing out the way. You'd object to her coddling if you thought it would do you any good. Sometimes, you've discovered, it's best to let your guardians treat you as the ward you are rather than to waste the effort fighting. She takes you to a stone platform at the far edge of camp, where you find Solas looking out over the horizon.

"It seems you are destined to be at the center of many impossibilities, Inquisitor," Solas greets you without turning.

You dismiss Cassandra. Solas may not be one of the people, but he's certainly defensive of "real" elven culture and that's precisely what you came here to talk to him about. You'd rather deal with him alone than give him the excuse to take up the conversation in Elvish. While in general you appreciate his knowledge of the ancient ways, you'd rather not end up with a headache to rival Dorian's trying to parse through his archaic Elvish after the day you've had.

"What did Dorian do?" you start.

"Don't tell me the Dalish are so ignorant that this magic is a foreign concept to you."

"I thought that... I've never heard of anything like this happening outside of stories," you say, choosing to ignore his tone and insulting phrasing.

"And many humans doubtless thought that their Chant was nothing but a story before one of the fabled magisters awoke and again sought to destroy the world."

"I wouldn't have taken you for a believer, Solas," you say, letting loose a little of your frustration. You don't have the patience to be lectured today.

"It's hardly belief to acknowledge what your eyes tell you," he snaps back. "The humans are young, but even a child can acknowledge the truth when you set it before them. _Usually_."

"You're saying it is possible, then. That what Dorian did means we're truly..."

Solas stubbornly waits for you to complete your sentence. You can't bring yourself to say it aloud. Only a Keeper can make such a declaration. And for you to claim this about yourself on top of lacking a Keeper’s authority... It's too bold, too arrogant. Yet as Solas said, the facts lie before your eyes, waiting for you to acknowledge the truth in them.

"Uth'nadas,” you let the word fall from your mouth unanchored from anything more, dropping heavy like a stone between you.

Solas doesn’t react, forcing you to sit with the weight of it. _Uth’nadas._ The Creators worked through every one of their servants, but so few were called to this path you’d grown up believing it was just one of the many stories meant to inspire, not to warn. Part of you still resists believing it. Dorian’s _human_. And you, you’re barely one of the people any longer, not with the path you’ve set yourself upon. Uth’nadas are meant to inspire, to live in the very image of the Creators. What reason could the Creators have for blessing the likes of you with such a rare honor?

"Is that what you think this was?" he asks, finally turning to look you in the eye. You can’t quite read the look he gives you. Have you missed the mark completely or is he just being obstinate?

"Is there any reason I shouldn't after today?" you challenge him with his own reasoning.

He turns back to the desert waste spread out beneath you.

"Anyone can perform the seemingly impossible when given the right motivation," he says coolly. "And it's not as if he acted alone. You can barely control the magic you've been given. Who's to say the answer isn't that simple?"

“Even ancient elven magic doesn’t work like that.”

“And you would know, being an expert on ancient elven magic.”

"Maybe I’m not. But that's what you believe,” you say, certain of your observation.

“Do not presume to tell me what I believe.”

“Is it that you don’t believe or only that you don’t _want_ to believe?” you press further, knowing now you’ve lighted on the truth.

Solas doesn't reply, but his expression hardens.

“Because Dorian’s human?”

“Should it please me? Does it please you, knowing our people have fallen so far that the shemlen are able to take even this from us?” he faces you, snapping suddenly. “It’s not enough that they build their cities on our ashes. Not enough that they claim you as _their_ Herald and place you upon a throne of _their_ making, as if their gods had anything to do with it. Now even this will be their claim. The first uth’nadas in almost seventy years, and it comes half-human.”

 _“Our people?”_ you say, your anger finally getting the better of you. It all comes falling out. Everything you’ve wanted to say for months to every person who ever looked down on you because of the marks on your face. But you held back, for the sake of your people and their already tarnished reputation. The pride of the Dalish, they mock you. But you’ve seen how easy it is now for them to take your people’s lack of submission as pride. “And who exactly are _our people_ , Solas? I have people. Even thousands of miles away and disinherited, I still have a people and a culture and a home. And yes, perhaps the Dalish have gotten things wrong over time. But so what? So what if our valaslin used to mark slaves? What was does not define what is. The valaslin are ours now, part of our faith and our culture. A culture you chose to take no part in. Even _Sera_ has people! But you? Your _people_ aren’t even people. They’re ruins. Echoes of things which haven’t existed for a hundred thousand years. You don’t have people, Solas. Or if you ever did, they’re lost to you now. Tell me that isn’t by your own doing. Tell me you’re not alone by choice and try and make me believe it."

You will live to regret this, but you don’t now.

A feral look crosses Solas’ face. He bares his teeth in a snarl, looking for all the world as if he would have your blood spill again this day. There’s nothing you can do to stop him if he decides that’s really what he wants. He has his staff, but you don’t. You’ve got your spirit blade, but the wound on your shoulder effectively makes it useless. Your nearest guardian has been sent to wait out of earshot.

It doesn’t matter. He can hurt you, but it doesn’t matter. You’re not backing down.

Solas finds his composure where yours failed you. He regains control over his expression and turns away from you again. So that is his decision.

"I don't think the humans understand what has occurred,” you continue in his silence. "They haven't made the connection yet."

"They won't. The Circle has done more than simply destroy individual mages, it has destroyed the history of magic as well. The Dalish are not the only people who have lost much of what was.”

"I'd rather keep it that way for now."

"Understood, Inquisitor."

You suppose there’s little more to say on the subject. You’ve heard what you came to hear.

You find Cassandra waiting for you a generous distance away, sweating in her heavy armor. It reminds you that you aren't the only one exhausted by the day’s events.

"You didn't have to wait," you say as you approach.

"Solas would not be able to carry you back to camp on his own if you were to faint."

If only that was your greatest worry.

"I don't feel I'm in any danger of fainting. The wound looked far worse than it was."

"It is not the knife's damage which concerns me."

You sigh, knowing this is only the first of many _concerns_ you'll be forced to address before all this is put to bed. You're not ready to deal with even Cassandra's well-meant concerns at the moment. You stubbornly set off towards camp, leaving her to follow or not, as she pleases.

She follows in obedient silence. What should be a blessing only irritates you further.

"It wasn't blood magic," you say defensively.

"Yet blood was certainly shed for arcane purpose."

"Blood was shed for the sake of battle. It's not as if Dorian was the one who plunged the knife into me."

"You haven't seen it. Not properly. It has _sentience_. It thinks and it _acts._ No common spell could create something like that."

"No common spell did. I don't think..."

You stop, unwilling to have this conversation any closer to camp than you already are. You wonder how wise it is to admit what is honestly only a guess on your part. You don't know what truly occurred, you only have your suspicions. All you know for certain is that Dorian did not perform real blood magic, for all he used your blood.

"Dorian wasn't the only mage involved in the tree's creation."

"Are you saying you aided him?"

"I'm saying that if any spirits were involved in that magic, it was the work of this," you tell her, holding up your marked hand. "But believe me when I say I'm just as confused by what occurred as you are. I don't know how any of this is possible."

A lie, but only of the most minor sort. _Uth’nadas._ Creators guide you. As if your life needed any more complications, even in the form of blessings such as this.

"What are the scouts saying?" you ask. "Do they sense anything demonic from the tree?"

"They say little and less. It is beyond their understanding. But..."

"Tell me," you order.

"You can see the open rift flickering at the heart of it. Or, that is what I would claim it was if I was not certain the rift we encountered was several yards from where the construct now stands."

"The original rift, is it gone?"

She nods, "There has been no demonic activity there since we returned."

"I should go and see it for myself. Perhaps that's all this is. It could be as simple as closing the rift and watching the magic dissipate like any other. That would be enough, wouldn’t it?” you ask cautiously. “To put all this to rest?”

"It could not hurt to try, if you feel you are up to it,” she replies, though it’s hardly the affirmation you were fishing for.

"I'm going to check in on Dorian first. Go ahead and gather a suitable party," you tell her. "I want Vivienne with us. I'll leave the rest to you."

Solas certainly knows more about the construct than any other at camp, but even the looming threat of blood mage rumors spreading through the ranks like a plague isn’t enough to make you ask for his opinion again this day. A Circle-trained mage’s opinion couldn’t hurt, even if only to tell you how soon they can gather the requisite materials to perform the Rite of Tranquility on you both.

"Inquisitor!"

You turn from Cassandra to see the requisitions officer running towards you. Creators, what else could possibly go wrong today?

"What is it?"

"You need to come quick. It's the Tevinter mage, sir. He's collapsed."

You set off running before Cassandra can stop you. There's a throng of people at the center of camp, all circled around something at their feet.

Sera's the first to notice you approach.

"Cezzy..." she says, reaching hesitantly towards you.

"What's happened?" you demand even as you push past her to see for yourself.

Dorian's lying unconscious in the sand. Two healers kneel over him, their hands alight with magic.

"What's happened?" you demand again, more frantically this time.

Vivienne steps forward, blocking your view.

"Darling, you shouldn't be here for this," she says gently, forcing you a step back.

"Tell me what's happening!" you order, your panic rising. What is she doing? You need to get to Dorian.

"It's too late, dear. I'm sorry."

"What do you mean it's too late? What happened? Someone tell me what the fuck is going on right now!"

"We don't know that yet," Varric says, stepping in. "In fact, I'd say we don't know much of anything at this point."

You shove past Vivienne and kneel at Dorian's side, watching the healers to try and understand what no one will tell you. You throw out your own pathetic healing magic, but for all you can tell he’s perfectly fine. Tired certainly, but not enough to cause this. It’s almost as if he’s sleeping.

"Do not give the boy false hope, Varric. It's too cruel.”

Varric ignores her as pointedly as you do. He kneels beside you and starts explaining.

"His headache got worse. We didn't notice until he stopped complaining about how much it hurt. Bull and I were at his side when it happened. We tried asking him what was wrong, but all he managed was a few words in Tevene before he passed out."

"What did he say?" you ask.

Varric shrugs, "I didn't catch it. Sorry, my Tevene’s not that great."

"Nothing that made any sense," Bull provides. "He seemed confused, like he was trying to ask something. But he was gone before he got it out.”

 _Gone. Too late._ Why do they keep talking like that? He's still alive. You can see him breathing.

"How bad is it?" you demand of one of the healers.

"I... We can't say, Inquisitor. I'm sorry, but this isn't a physical wound. There's nothing we can do."

Nothing you didn’t already know.

"But he's still alive?" You need to hear it from someone else.

"Yes, but..."

"But that's only a technicality," Vivienne breaks in. "You have to know what this is, Inquisitor. As a fellow mage—”

"As a fellow mage, you should know the difference between an unconscious person and an abomination!" you say before she can get another word out.

"I know this isn't what you want to hear, but it's only a matter of time before a demon enters his vacant body."

"Dorian isn't dead!"

"No. If he were this would not be half so painful."

"I may not be a mage, but I've seen my fair share of abominations," Varric says, standing. "The Inquisitor's right. We shouldn't do anything rash, not until we're sure there are no other options."

"There are no other options. Dorian Pavus is in essence dead, just as surely as if his heart had been torn from his chest. His essence no longer resides in his body," Vivienne argues. "All that remains is the breathing corpse of a mage, ripe for infestation. I had hoped it would not come to this, but now that it has we have no other choice. We must finish what has been started. This is not the time for weakness."

"No! It's not too late! Not until a demon has taken him over."

"As it may have already done. Even if opens his eyes, we'll have no way of knowing if the creature lurking behind them is a demon."

"And you'd willingly take his last chance at life rather than risk his possession?"

"I would spare you! I would give him a clean, quiet death rather than stand idly by while you let what little is left of him fall to possession. I don't expect you to thank me for it now, but this is the best option remaining to us. Leave, Inquisitor. You know I must do this."

Your hand goes to your side, instinctively reaching for the hilt of your spirit blade regardless of your wound.

"You won't. I won't let you."

_"Stop this immediately!"_

Cassandra steps forward, placing herself between you and Vivienne.

"You would do this? You would take us down this path?" she demands, eyes hard on the hand still hovering over the hilt of your blade.

"I won't let her kill Dorian," you say again, but the fury has already gone out of your voice. Of course you don’t want to hurt Vivienne. You feel like a halla helplessly herded to the cliff’s edge by a pack of wolves. You have no choice. You can’t let her kill Dorian. You _can’t_ , no matter what the correct decision is. Creators, how did it come to this?

"She will not."

"Cassandra!”

"You will not. Not until there truly is no other choice," Cassandra says again, voice firm.

"There _is_ no other choice. The boy is lost. He was lost from the moment he turned to blood magic."

"That wasn't blood magic, you pathetic, ignorant excuse for a mage,” you say, your rage flaring up again. You won’t sit here and listen to that utter nonsense on top of everything else. “That was my magic, the work of the anchor!"

"He used your blood and the blood of the fallen Venatori!"

"He used it as you use lyrium. He didn't deal with demons!"

"You have made your concerns quite clear, Enchanter," Cassandra says, powering over the both of you. "But you will remember your place. You were not handed the sword."

Vivienne locks her every emotion away in an instant. The face she wears may as well be an Orlesian mask.

"We will not kill Dorian until any and all other options have been explored."

"I understand," Vivienne says simply.

"Your service to the Inquisition does not require you aid us in this if you object."

"I will not leave a place I am clearly needed. Magic exists to serve man,” she says, and you hate her even more for her sad, simple, self-effacing faith.

She doesn't look at you through the entire exchange. You know you should say something, but Dorian has consumed your every thought. Dorian, lying worse than dead behind you. Your mind instinctively goes back to the old prayers, ones you haven't said for far too long. Sylaise is the bond-weaver, the healer. She works through you. You wish you could call on her spirit as easily as you can your magic. You need her now more than you ever have before. It can’t end like this. It can’t. Not now, not after what you’ve learned. What purpose could there be in taking him from you like this?

_Heal me when I fall, hold me hand in hand, weave the sacred bond, keep the Dread Wolf lost._

You do the only thing you can now. The decision has been made. You move forward.

"Someone find Solas. Bring him here," you order, unwilling as you are to leave Dorian's side.

Solas steps forward before anyone can move.

"Lethallin."

You switch to Elvish to keep at least this from human ears.

_"Will you fight me on this too?"_

_"To what end? I see you are as wood in this. Fain obedience is at your device, if it please the mighty Inquisitor_ ," he says with no small measure of mockery. Doubtless a small cruelty to repay you for earlier, even if he is being honest.

 _"I will save him,”_ you say, because that’s all that matters right now. Let Solas be as petty and superior as he wants. You will save him. They will help you or they will get out of your way.

_"Your want has me a knave to your woodness, as all the route."_

_"Then send me into the Fade,"_ you say, ignoring his slurs on your sanity.

_"As you leste, yet go well advised if you still prove to have wit: You wage the world's sorrow on your lorn heart."_

_"If I fall by this choice, so be it. I am one of the people. I would far sooner scorn Corypheus' gift than Mythal’s."_

Solas does something with his face that might, you think, actually be a nod of approval.

"So be it then," he says in the Ferelden tongue. "The Inquisitor has spoken. He will enter the Fade."

"It seems you face your Harrowing at last, Inquisitor," Vivienne says. "I wish you luck."

Neither of you acknowledge how much you’re going to need it.


	2. Chapter 2

The Fade looks different while lucidly dreaming. The bizarre and illogical make an alluring sort of sense. It would be more than easy to forget how unnatural everything you’re seeing is. You have to fight to keep your sense of what’s real and what isn’t in this ever-changing world. It’s the only way to keep from falling prey to the illusions of demons.

You know that no rules of time or distance find a mirror in the Fade. Though Dorian may be a mere two feet away from you in the real world, here he could be a hundred miles in any direction. Worse still, you could keep to a straight and narrow path and still wind up walking in endless circles. Vivienne and Solas were right to question your decisions. This is a truly stupid plan. You can only hope that luck leads you to Dorian, and fast. The longer you stay here, the greater the risk for you both.

You have no choice. The decision is made. You must keep moving. You send another prayer to Sylaise and set off.

The rare wisp or shade launches an attack the moment you draw near, but all in all the journey is uneventful, particularly when compared to your last visit. You try not to look a gift halla in the mouth. There’s no telling how long it could take to find Dorian. Your spirit may not directly parallel your body’s exhaustion, but you’d do well not to test your limits.

Soon you can’t say how long you’ve been walking. You take to reciting prayers under your breath, more from rote memory than from any true attempt to beseech the Creators. It helps to ground you, to give you a sense of the passing time and remind you where you are.

You’re shocked out of your hazy complacency by a shade moving with some considerable haste not far from you. You wonder what could possibly make anything in this warped, quiet world move with that level of purpose and set out in pursuit.

The demon rounds up a flight of haphazard stone steps set along the side of a cliff. You try to keep enough distance to keep from drawing its attention, but you’re not sure you should even bother. The demon is dead-set on its goal, whatever that may be.

“Dorian!”

You shout out his name almost on instinct. Could that really be him? The shade you were following joins two others in attack. The figure looks human, but you can tell little more from the way the demons are swarming him. You send a bolt of electricity to help him and pull out your sword to join in the fray. The demons fall quickly under your combined assault, and you’re finally able to take a good look at the figure before you.

“Oh, goodie. You again.”

“Dorian? Is that you?” you ask because you honestly have to. Overlooking the obvious dangers of trusting your vision in the Fade, this creature hardly looks as if it could be living, much less Dorian. He looks _possessed_. Bright pulses of green magic cross his entire form, as if he’s been shattered from within and rift magic is leaking out through every open crack. Only it’s impossible to be possessed in the Fade. He has no body for a demon to take here.

You almost _want_ this thing before you to be a demon. What could you possibly do to save this him from this much damage?

“You have to ask? Shouldn’t you know?” he replies sardonically, leaning on his staff. “Regardless, thank you for your help with that last batch. I admit I’m getting rather weary of bashing in the ephemeral skulls of demons.”

“Can you not use magic?” you ask, thinking back to the fight. He’d been using his staff exclusively as a blunt weapon, not an arcane device.

“Of course I can, demon. I’m merely choosing not to use it for aesthetic purposes,” he rolls his eyes. “Oh, pardon me. Calling you a demon rather ruins the mood, doesn’t it? Can we pretend I didn’t say that? In my defense, you are rather awful at this. How am I supposed to keep playing along when you make it so bloody hard?”

Well, that certainly explains the chilly reception.

“I’m not a demon,” you tell him, resisting the urge to ask if he is. You’re becoming more convinced he isn’t with each passing second. Dorian’s unwittingly hit on the answer: No demon would put on this unexpected, imperfect impersonation. It’s too messy to be anything other than mortal. “Dorian, it’s really me. Do you know where you are? I’ve come to help you.”

“My, you’re really looking to break script, aren’t you?”

“Dorian, answer me,” you repeat. “Do you know where you are?”

Now that you’re slowly adjusting to his appearance, you can see how exhausted he is. He needs the support of his staff to stay upright. His breathing is slightly labored and you suspect that the heavy sarcasm you’re on the receiving end of is due more to his exhaustion than his belief that you’re a demon.

“Fine, fine. If you insist. But do remember that I did try to play along,” he says, shifting his weight gingerly from one side to the other with a look of consternation. “I, Dorian of house Pavus, am fully aware that I am currently residing in the Fade. Well, my conscious, at least. I rather hope my body is still residing back at camp. Coming here physically once in a lifetime is well more than enough, thank you.”

“Your body and mine are both back at camp. We’re sleeping. Except we weren’t sure you were going to wake up. Do you remember what happened? You expanded all your mana.”

“Yes, yes. I stupidly believed my darling, beloved Cesare was in mortal danger and overreacted in a most spectacular fashion. I’m quite aware of my own circumstances, thank you.”

“If you know that then you know what a serious position we’re both in. We need to get out of here.”

“And you’re here to help me, of course.”

“Dorian, I’m real. I don’t know how to prove it to you, but I am.”

“And I believe you whole-heartedly. But, as you might have observed, I’ve been rather busy killing lesser demons, and as a result I’m just a bit tired. I know it’s very important that I follow you like a good little snack but if you don’t mind, and I’m certain you won’t, I think I’ll just sit here and rest for a while. You’ll protect me, won’t you? Of course you will. How could my amatus do anything less?”

Dorian plops graceless and exhausted down where he stands, almost losing hold of his staff in the process. That’s a nice little trap you’re stuck in. Do what he wants and it’s proof you’re a demon. Argue, and it’s still proof you’re a demon.

“May as well,” you shrug, choosing the option that expends less pointless effort. “My only plan was to find you and wait for you to wake up on your own. I suppose I can do that just as well here as I could anywhere else.”

You look around, taking stock for the first time of your surroundings. Strategically, it’s not a bad position, this raised, rugged platform along the cliff’s sheer edge. Hard to get overwhelmed or trapped without some option, given the narrow staircase continuing on either side of your resting place. You’d rather rest here with your back to a solid wall and a good vision of what’s coming from below than risk your odds out in the open.

“It looks like we’re alone for the moment,” you observe, your eyes aching slightly as they try to keep up with the hazily-changing landscape.

“Yes, _alone_ ,” Dorian presses hard on the irony, or what passes for it from his perspective.

“Does it hurt?” you ask, leaving the trouble of his certainty for another time.

“What? This?” He looks down at his broken form. “Not in the least. I can certainly feel it, however. I’ve been wondering if it feels anything like the anchor. When I had the spare moment to think between the waves of demons out to make a meal of me, of course. Could you tell me? Do you know enough of him to know that?”

“Like you said, it doesn’t hurt. Well, not since we stopped the expansion of the breach at Haven. The edge tingles sometimes, like the skin underneath is really gone. More like a piece is missing than a wound. It’s almost cold,” you say, searching for the right words to describe something this alien. “If you were curious, why did you wait until now to ask? It’s not as if you believe a word I’m saying.”

“Do I really have to explain it to you? Very well. Let’s assume you’re the real Cesare. Your answer admittedly does little more than satisfy my curiosity. But let’s assume, just for the sake of argument, that you’re a demon. What would your answer be then, given that this answer is something you could never take from my mind? Would you perhaps, like the liar you are, simply adapt what I present as my assumption, tailored to your own use? A shattered, broken conscious, as if some piece of me is missing, leaving me too weak to maintain my own physical form or here in the Fade. Sounds a rather apt summation of my own situation, don’t you think?”

“If I told you that I think Vivienne’s preferred red tastes terrible just as you do, would that be proof I’m a demon too? Really, Dorian, this is pointless. The only proof I can give is to wait until you wake up and tell you with my own mouth. Stop playing games with me and rest while you have the chance. Believe me when I say you look as if you need it.”

“Oh, aren’t you clever? I’ll just stop trying then, shall I?”

“Answer me this, since you’re so keen to doubt me: What do you think the real Cesare is doing right now if he’s not in the Fade looking for you?”

Dorian spits something at you in Tevene. You figure it’s probably pointless to point out that you can’t understand a word of Tevene when he’ll just assume you’re lying. Also, you strongly doubt you’re missing anything important.

“And if he is in the Fade looking for you, as we both know he is, how do you ever plan to find him? Why should he ever believe you’re really you when you don’t even look human?”

“Shut up, demon,” he says with venomous emphasis on each word. “I hardly need you here to point out the obvious. Go pander your pathetic wares elsewhere.”

That effectively ends the conversation, but only for a moment.

“Dorian, what did you do?” you’re unable to resist asking.

“To get like this, you mean? Shouldn’t you know? Either you’re the genuine article and you witnessed it first hand or you’re a demon with full access to my memories. Really, you’re doing a piss-poor job regardless of whether your aim is to kill me or save me.”

“Or maybe I’m simply asking because that firsthand experience you mentioned occurred immediately after I was _stabbed_ ,” you argue, getting the tiniest bit frustrated with all the run-around. Today has not been good for your self-control. “And if you weren’t a demon yourself, maybe you’d know that what the real Dorian did was more than impossible for a human mage and you’d understand my confusion. See? I can play this game too.”

You stubbornly go and sit down beside him, just because you know it will irritate him. Perhaps if you piss him off enough, he’ll believe you’re real. It's certainly doing wonders for your level of certainty. If not, you’ll still get the consolation prize of making an ass of yourself.

“Keep your distance, demon,” he growls, scooting away from you in a frankly childish act of defiance.

“No. I’m real and you could be dying. I’ll damn well get as close to you as I want,” you tell him, stubbornly moving closer. “Honestly, Dorian. What could I possibly do to prove to you I’m real?”

He sneers as you slide closer, but eventually gives in when he sees you’ve no intention to move in either direction.

“Well, you’re certainly the first desire demon to point out my troubling appearance, so I suppose that’s a point in your favor,” he allows, shifting his grip on his staff so he’s better prepared to hit you over the head if it comes to that. “You’re also the first to acknowledge we’re in the Fade.”

“Oh, so I’m not merely a demon, I’m a desire demon?”

“In that form? What else would you be?”

“Your desire demons look like me? That’s flattering. I would have guessed Bull would be their first choice.”

Dorian groans so loudly it echoes across the Fade.

“I’m never going to hear the end of that, am I? Even in the bloody Fade. He catches my eye straying one bloody time…”

“Once? Try once a day. I only _mentioned_ it once.”

“Oh, like you never look at other people. At least when I’m staring it’s at another man.”

“How does that make it better? If anything, you should be less insulted that the person I’m looking at couldn’t be described as a bloody upgrade!”

“Don’t waste my time with such nonsense. If I seriously considered the Iron Bull to be an upgrade, why the hell would I even be with you? Not like I’d have a hard time getting in his bed. You, however, proved both a considerably greater challenge and prize.”

“Why would I be with you if that was how I viewed Cassandra?”

“Because even if you do prefer me over all others, you’re Dalish and the Inquisitor. I know you like to pretend that the future doesn’t matter until it becomes the present, but I can’t live like that. Even if the odds are far from in our favor, I can’t help but to question where this is going in the unlikely event that we both survive this war.”

“You’re conveniently forgetting the part where I’m sterile. And even if I wasn’t, any children I could have with Cassandra would be _human_. I don’t want children, I want to help save my dying race. And it confounds me why you continue to believe that I give the wateriest nug shit about what you fucking shems think of my appropriate romantic prospects. How many times am I going to have to say it? If they don’t like my decisions they can damn well kick me off their blighted throne!”

“It’s not your loyalty I’m questioning, it’s your common sense. You think this is all just going to end once we’ve put the world back on its proper axis? Do you honestly still believe that this is _ever_ going to end? You don’t touch the kind of power you possess without having it touch you back. You can’t escape the Inquisition any more than I can escape Tevinter. You could run a thousand miles away and it will still follow you. You are the Inquisitor, for better or for worse. And I… I've made my decision,” he finishes, words unsaid clearly cut at the stem. “Even our best prospects fall wildly short of ideal.”

“Dorian—”

“Don’t bother arguing with me. The only reason I’ve said any of this is because I know you’re a demon. I’ve no intention of spoiling what little time I do have with him, but you? Why bother lying when you’re in my head? This is all just a grand opportunity to work out a little frustration. And speaking of frustration, there’s a gaggle of demons headed our way. You might want to consider killing them for me if you still want me all for yourself.”

You look and sure enough you can see six rage demons making their way up the stairs. Oh wonderful.

“Sit your pert arse down or I’ll knock you down myself!” you threaten as he starts to rise. Dorian’s exhausted enough. You won’t have him risking himself further. “And don’t think this conversation is over.”

You summon your spirit blade and spend a delightful few minutes solving a simple problem. Why can’t all of life’s problems be this easy to solve? Just lop off a few heads and go on with your day. You suppose you’ll just have to count yourself lucky that Corypheus is one problem you can solve through murder. Probably, anyway. What did Dorian say about your odds? Six to one? Three to eight?

Dorian’s long gone by the time the last demon has fallen. Of course he bloody is. You bite down your anger and chase after him. It doesn’t take much to catch up, not when he’s this weary. He’s barely made it up the stairs by the time you’re back beside him.

“You realize how stupid running is, don’t you? Either you’re running from the real Cesare or you’re attempting to outrun a demon in the Fade when you can barely walk.”

“The funny thing about mortals is that we have this strange little instinct towards self-preservation. Regardless of how doomed my prospects, I had to try. Forgive me my humanity.”

“Dorian, stop. You’re going to really kill yourself if you keep this up. I don’t know about you, but I’d rather not find out what happens when you fall unconscious in the Fade.”

“No.”

“Dorian!”

“I have a plan,” he informs you before you can properly launch a second protest.

“Oh? Care to let me in on it?”

“We find the tree.”

“The tree that you almost died summoning?”

“Let’s assume neither of us are demons, just for the sake of argument. You said you didn’t have a plan for getting us out of here and I’m admittedly at an equal loss. As a consequence, our best bet is to simply wait around and hope I wake up, correct?”

“Solas can pull me out at any time. He’s keeping an eye out on the other side, though don’t ask me how.”

“But let me guess: you’re not leaving without me?”

“Would you expect anything less?”

“Which brings me back to my original point,” he labors on, treating his staff more as a walking stick than a conduit of magic. “Waiting around for demons to pick us off is a fucking stupid plan.”

“And how does finding the tree help with that?”

“I assume it will defend us, just as it did earlier. It was a work of potent magic. I suspect it will still recognize us even here.”

“You think it was mirrored in the Fade because of what I did,” you say, and it seems obvious now that he’s pointed it out. You’re still not sure exactly what you did, but it was almost as if you pulled open a rift at the heart of his spell. Rifts work both ways. The spell could have easily leaked through to the other side of the Veil, if the rift was stable enough.

“I’m not sure how you managed what you did when you did, but it’s probably the only reason I’m still alive. The spell ate up the free mana you introduced from the Fade before it had a chance to suck me dry. Good thing too, as I doubt that would have ended well for anyone involved. My spell was about to collapse in on itself. Never pretty when that happens. You… He… Oh, Maker take us both. I’m too tired for this.”

“Even if we can find it, I doubt I could reopen the rift there.”

“I assumed as much.”

“Why, because I’m a demon?”

“Because even if you aren’t, the only time you’ve managed to open a rift of any size was when you were falling to your death.”

“Well, it’s not as if I’ve exactly _tried_ ,” you say, a touch defensively. “Forgive me for having a healthy respect for the magic that's currently destroying the world.”

Dorian, to your complete and utter surprise, tugs you over by your collar and kisses you on the cheek.

“Don’t take it so personally. Your respect for unknown and dangerous magics is one of the things I appreciate most about you.”

“What was that?” you ask dumbly.

“Casual affection. Are you unfamiliar with the concept, demon?”

“As the real Cesare, I’m simply insulted that you’d be casually affectionate with what you assume is a demon.”

“Only the real Cesare Lavellan would be this bloody argumentative. Really, your temper is the absolute last thing I desire right now. Consider me convinced. Now, will you please focus on helping me find the tree before you wind up having to carry me there?”

“How do you propose we find it? I assume you have some better plan than wandering around aimlessly.”

“Actually…” Dorian stops dead.

“Yes?” you prompt. You recognize that look, even with his marred appearance. There is lightening striking in that brilliant brain of his.

“I have had a thought. A mage has more power in their dreaming state than a mundane, correct? And dreams operate on impossible, magical logic. Instead of cleaving to our rationality, what if we abandon it? Seems the logical decision once you take logic out of the picture.”

“Alright, but what is it you’re actually proposing we do?”

“Not we, you. Cole says that spells have a sort of signature unique to each mage. He calls it a song, one which is a singular strand of an even greater melody. You aided in the construction of the tree. If it exists here, it should still sing your song. Perhaps we could use that to guide us.”

“That would be an excellent plan if I was in fact a spirit and capable of hearing such music,” you say, admittedly slightly crestfallen that he was lying about believing in you.

“The true Dreamers, Somniari, are more powerful than spirits in the Fade. Yet their powers are merely naturally magnified versions of talents every mage possesses. Given what we’ve learned from Cole about the nature of spirits and magic, what if the true talent of the Somniari is their ability to discern the song consciously? We all hear it. It’s only that we’re blinded by our other senses as mortal creatures.”

“I suppose that’s a valid theory,” you say rolling the idea around in your head.

“Come now, surely you can summon up a little more faith than that. You’ll have to, for this to work.”

“I still don’t understand what it is you want me to do.”

“I want you to cast a spell and let its song lead you to our tree.”

You’re skeptical. It shows.

“Oh, come on. What could it hurt? I’d do it myself if I had access to my magic,” he complains. “Even if you’re completely and utterly wrong, at least it gives us a direction to start looking.”

“Fair point. What sort of spell should I use?”

“Something you can maintain without much effort. You’ll need to concentrate, I’ll imagine.”

You let lightening arc between your fingertips.

“Good, now focus in on the point where mana takes form.”

You try and do as he asks, but all that you can sense is what you always sense when you preform magic. The movement of mana is there, admittedly much faster and freer than when you’re pulling it through the Veil. That’s all there is, though.

“Try something bigger, something more like what we did in the cave.”

You comply, summoning a proper ice spell of significant force.

“Oh,” you say suddenly. “That’s interesting. Can you feel that?”

“What?”

“It’s like…” You move cautiously closer. “You feel strange. Wrong.”

Like a Templar’s silence, you realize. It’s as if he’s cloaked in silence. No, as if he's casting it himself. Free mana is so thick in the Fade you feel as if you could create a forest of mountain-high glaciers, but around Dorian there’s nothing. An empty void.

Could you really have been following a demon all this time?

You quell the wave of panic rising in your throat. If anything, this is proof that the creature before you is anything but a demon. Creatures of the Fade are pure mana.

“Hold still,” you order.

Dorian stands obediently still. You move closer by degrees, keeping your senses trained on the mana within and around you. It’s faint, but the closer you get the more certain you are. He’s repulsing mana. It flies away from your skin as if it’s dust blowing in the wind. You press closer and hesitantly reach out to touch him, choosing a relatively whole-looking span of skin on his upper arm to rest your palm against. Nothing for certain. You wrap your arms around him, pressing your whole body against his.

“Oh, that feels rather nice, actually,” he says quietly, pulling you closer. “I mean, more so than usual. What are you doing?”

It’s an unfortunately less pleasant experience on your end. There’s no mana in the air around him for you to channel back in. All you can feel is the slow, sieving pull of mana as it leaves you. It’s not painful, but it’s far from comfortable.

“It’s not me, it’s you. You can feel it, can’t you? You’re pulling mana directly from me.”

“That sounds unhealthy,” he tries to pull back but you won’t let him.

“What it sounds like is a way to keep you alive,” you argue. “Stop fighting me. At the rate you’re taking it in, it would take you a week to drain me. And that’s if we didn’t take a single break.”

You step back to demonstrate what you mean. As expected, you can feel the mana rush back to you the moment you’re far enough away from him.

“There. Perfectly replenished. Nothing to worry about.”

“Well, then. Far be it for me to argue if you’re in the mood for a little _physical contact_ ,” he grins.

"Forgive me if I seem less than enthusiastic. You're still missing your eyes." If only it was his terrible sense of humor he’d lost.

"Am I? That's disturbing."

"You think you need to tell me that? Come on, give me your hand. We'll heal you by walking together like the lovesick birds we are. It will be almost like that date I owe you."

That certainly gets his attention. He holds out his hand with grace and poise, like the proper noble he is.

"You know, overall I have to admit that this day hasn't been half bad. Sure, we both nearly died, but this," he leans down to kiss your hand, "almost makes it worth it."

"Come on, Dorian. I can't stand the thought of spending another moment here, not when there are so many better ways we could be spending our time," an oddly familiar voice says in a sickeningly seductive tone.

You watch hopelessly flabbergasted as Dorian runs off hand in hand with a desire demon, laughing as he goes.

"Dorian!" you yell after him as you take pursuit, but he doesn't seem to hear you. The demon, however, does. It turns and with a wicked smile and with a flick of its wrists you find yourself tumbling head over heels. You scramble to your feet, only to find you're surrounded by Mabari-sized spiders. Why is it always spiders?

You're forced to give ground before the battle is done. They're no true challenge, but there are just too many of them. By the time the last one falls, Dorian and the demon are out of sight. You swear and chase after them, hoping they haven't gotten too far.

_Aid me in my hour of need. I beg your boon, Sylaise._

You run blindly in the direction you think they went. You did this. You convinced Dorian to drop his guard, and look where it got you. How many times can you possibly get him killed in a single day?

The green and black horizon turns a light sky blue, as if you're running into a bizarrely colored sunrise. You pick up your pace. If nothing else, a change in scenery will give you a point of reference from which to expand your search without fear of wasting time doubling over ground.

The moment you think that is the moment you see it. You've found the tree. More importantly, you've found Dorian. He's standing in the arms of the demon, the tree sprouting up behind them picturesquely, like a gross parody of something out of one of Varric's halfpenny novels.

Stealth has never been your strong suit, but you do have your Dalish heritage in your favor. You sneak as close to the two of them as you deem safe. You need a plan. Now that he's under the demon's thrall, you'll have to proceed carefully to keep him from being hurt.

"We did this, Dorian," the demon says in a cruel approximation of your voice. Or what you now unfortunately have to assume is your voice. Do you really sound like that? That’s hardly as impressive (or deep) as you thought it was. "Do you know what this means?"

"It means that you are an impossible thing and I'm an incredibly lucky man. You did far more than save my life, you know. This would all just be an overly large chunk of ice if not for you. I know I shouldn't sound so pleased, what with my strict policy against playing with dangerous magic and all, but to see something like this with my own eyes... I could spend a decade studying what you managed in an instant. I wish I could. You might find it hard to stop me, once this saving the world business is completed."

"Don't sell yourself short, amatus. You were the one who performed the impossible. Did you think I wouldn't notice that?"

You can see even from your distance away how Dorian shies, looking for one of the few times in his life genuinely bashful. You could spit fire. You've called him _emma lath_ and _ma vhenan_ , but you've never felt quite bold enough to take that one simple lesson in Tevene.

"I didn't know if we shared enough common culture between us for you to see it for what it was. Do the Dalish have their own tales where..." He fumbles awkwardly for the words. "...this sort of thing happens?"

"Dorian, everyone knows the story of Aida and Kreopatrus. Do you really think a master artisan like the Scop has never been translated and smuggled to the south?" The demon runs a clawed hand through Dorian’s hair. "I know what you did for me, amatus. What point is there in being coy now? Who could ever look at this and not know in a single instant what we are to one another? You know what this means. There will never be another, not for you or for me."

"Oh, Maker preserve me. I didn't even..." Dorian flounders. "I knew I cared deeply about you, yes, but I never thought... I thought it only happened in stories! Silly me, I suppose for failing to take every tale I was told as a child literally. You're busy stopping Corypheus from reenacting the first verses of the Chant and meanwhile I'm making a fool of myself bringing the Scop's time-honored romantic clichés to life. I shouldn't even be surprised at this point. We make a rather good Aida and Kreopatrus, don't we? We're probably going to die anyway."

"We don't have to," the demon promises. "Not anymore. We could stay here forever, sitting under this tree. It could be our resting place for all of eternity. You'd never grow hungry, never tire. I'd be with you always. All you have to do is say yes."

"But... We can't," Dorian says, confused as he breaks slightly from the thrall. "I can't. I'm leaving you."

You slam your sword through the demon's chest then you set the blighted bitch on fire for good measure. To hell with fancy plans. You've heard enough.

"What did you... Oh, Maker. Tell me I didn't."

You wait patiently while he puts it all back together.

"How long were you listening?" he asks.

"Long enough. What would ever make you think I know anything about Tevinter playwrights? Did you forget for a moment what Dalish means?"

"Oh, we're starting there, are we?"

"As opposed to the part where you admitted knowing what we have is a gift from the Creators and then a breath later saying you still plan to leave anyway?"

"I know it isn't what you want to hear, but—"

"Don't, Dorian," you stop him. Hearing him justify it again won't change anything, not for either of you. "We have bigger concerns at the moment."

You trudge towards the tree's base, dragging him along behind you with a hand tight on his wrist.

"Well, it hasn't tried to kill us. I suppose that's a good sign," you say, pressing a hand to the trunk. It looks slightly different here, wilder. Not that you can say you got a very good look at the one mirrored in the real world. "Do you think it will protect us?"

"With any luck. And we have been spectacularly lucky today," he says, dropping down to sit with his back against the tree, just like he did earlier. "Well, for the most part. Depending on your definition of luck. Maybe I should just keep my mouth shut on the subject of our luck. The day's not quite over yet."

"Move," you order.

You force his arms out of the way and sit down between his legs. You press back, wrapping his arms around you until you're touching as much as is comfortably possible. The drain on your mana is instantaneous and much stronger than it was before. You won't be able to keep this up for too long without a break, but hopefully the increased pull means he's healing that much faster.

"We still have to heal you. Or did you forget?" you ask when he's slow to respond.

"Oh. Of course."

"Don’t pout. I can be angry with you and love you at the same time."

That's the first time you've ever really said it, that you love him. The first time in a language common between you, at least. You can feel his shock without needing to see his face.

"I'm sorry. I love you dearly, more than I ever thought it was possible to love another person. I’ve been scared to say it, but there’s hardly any use in pretending after today’s events. I know it’s not fair, saying it like this given our circumstances. The last thing in the world I want is to hurt you, but—"

"But you're not changing your mind," you finish for him.

"I have to do this."

"I know!" you say a bit sharper than you intended. "I know you do. I just..."

You do understand. You know better than anyone how heavy the responsibility he carries is. He can't turn away from Tevinter, not when he knows how much good could be accomplished. You know equally well how painful this decision is for him. But knowing all that doesn't change how you feel, and after today's revelation...

"I find it hard to believe that this doesn't make things harder for you," you say, choosing your words as carefully as you can. You know from experience how easy it is for Dorian to get the bit in his teeth and run off on false assumptions.

"It might have, if for even a second I'd entertained the notion that I'd ever find someone out there who could ever mean half as much to me as you do. I didn’t need physical proof to know what you were to me. Unlike you, I have the unfortunate benefit of past experience which assured me that you were more than exceptional long before today's events."

You suppose that's meant to be reassuring. It probably would be if, as he said, you ever needed proof of what you mean to him. But this is different. This is about more than what you want or feel. This is about considering all the information in front of you and making the best decision you can. 

"What does it change for you?” he asks cautiously.

“I was ready to let you go.”

“And now?”

“I’m not.”

“Because you think this means there won’t be anyone else for you after I’m gone.”

“I know you’ve got this idiotic fantasy in your head where the moment you leave Skyhold I sweep Cassandra off her feet and straight up to my quarters, but that was never going to happen. I love you. I will mourn you when you go. And yes, perhaps I might have possibly moved on one day, but I never planned on it. That’s not what I find challenging about all this. I just don’t understand why the Creators would put this responsibility on us when we’ve no way to honor it.”

“What do you mean _responsibility_? Responsibility to whom?"

“To the Creators, for choosing us for this honor. Or to your Maker, if that’s what you’d rather believe. It's not a question of simply choosing what's right over what we want anymore. How do you choose between two things which need to be done? I was fine when I knew this was the right decision, but now..."

“I am getting the impression that this is one of those Dalish things you expect me to understand without realizing they’re Dalish things.”

You turn in his arms, trying to get a decent view of his face.

“But you said it yourself back there with the demon. You know what happened today means that we’re fated for one another. If the Creators chose us to be uth’nadas," you correct yourself, still unable to say it without trying to soften the admission with feigned doubt. "The Creators intervened today on our behalf to prove the strength of our bond. We have to honor that blessing through service. I just don’t understand how we’re meant to do that when you’re halfway around the world.”

"I'm going to need you to slow down please, darling. That is most definitely a Dalish thing. The fate I was talking about wasn't  _fate,_ per se. Not like you're thinking of it at any rate. This sort of thing... It doesn't occur in the Chant. It happens at the end of children's stories and operas. The prince saves his betrothed with magic tears or the princess suddenly finds herself with the preternatural strength necessary to save her beloved from the evil Qunari. The Maker has nothing to do with it. It's a fantasy. A silly little cliche played out a thousand times over Tevinter's artistic history. Do you know what would have happened if this all would have occurred back home? They’d be laughing for weeks. Felix is probably rolling in his grave as we speak. It’s almost as bad as setting the bloody sheets on fire when you lose your virginity. Nowhere near as common, but everyone’s heard the stories. I’ve been counting myself lucky that the southerners didn’t seem to understand it, probably because they lock all their mages up in bloody towers and refuse to let them fall in love.”

“So… it doesn’t mean anything to you, is what you’re saying.”

“On the contrary, it means a great deal to me. I’m so over the moon I can’t even keep my magic composed where you’re concerned. It's ridiculous. Embarrassing even. But before you I never imagined loving someone like this was even possible. I'd read all the stories, yes, but then at some point I grew up decided that's all they ever were. In the real world all you had to look forward to were mindless infatuation and the comfortable complacency of settling down. I never imagined there could be anything more than that. And to be perfectly honest, the moment I started to realize that what I felt for you was more than that, I was terrified of it. I'm not in control of my feelings any more than I'm in control of my magic when it comes to you. That's not... This business between us isn't _safe_. You know that as well as I do, regardless of how much you like to pretend otherwise. You can't stop being Dalish any more than I can stop being an Altus. Even ignoring our respective heritages, the entire world's falling apart around us. We need to be able to make wise decisions if we've any hope of surviving this, but what I feel for you isn't smart. If I'm not in control, I'm scared where this is going to take me. We don't have the luxury of safety now, not with the way the world is."

His self-criticism hits you harder than any directed at you ever could. You can't look him in the eye.

"You're right. It may not even matter anymore, but you're right," you say, dragging your hand through your hair. Just another bad habit you've never had full control over.

"What are you saying?"

"Look around you, Dorian. Do you really think smart decisions got us here?"

It doesn't take anything more than that for Dorian to understand.

"How bad is it?"

"Well, assuming we both manage to make it out of this unharmed and assuming that they don't kill you or make you Tranquil to assure themselves you're not an abomination and assuming I'm even still the Inquisitor after all this is said and done..."

"Maker guide us."

"We still have friends. Less than we did before, but we still have friends," you say, partially to reassure yourself. It doesn't feel like you have very many friends right now, regardless of the reality. "The alternative was watching them kill you. I couldn't do that. I don't care if it was the right decision or not. I couldn't do it."

Dorian presses his forehead gently to yours, holding you close to him with hands threaded through your hair. He makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob that almost breaks you right then and there.

"This world is such a fucking mess," he whispers. "You are without a doubt the single greatest experience of my entire life. Even if I'm destined to lose you, that doesn't change."

You hold him tighter. You can't find the words to reply. You can't even breathe. You're scared if you do you'll start crying. The world's not safe enough for you to start crying now. Give in and you might never find the will to stop.

“Tell me what it means to you. Please,” he asks, brushing his fingers soothingly along your scalp. He doesn't need to see your face to feel how tense you are. He doesn't even need to feel your tension to know how badly you need that comfort.

You let yourself have that comfort for just as long as it takes for you to find your breath again, then you force yourself to stand up and step away from him.

"I need a break to replenish my mana."

You need more than that. You take a deep breath and then explain.

“What we did today would be more than enough for any Keeper to declare us uth’nadas. If we had a Keeper. It means something like… fated obligation,” you translate as best you can.

“Obligation? That doesn’t sound very romantic.”

“It’s not supposed to. Uth’nadas is about more than romance. It’s about a love that exists in service to the Creators. It’s a blessing, finding someone you’re fated to be with, but it’s also a responsibility. To lead by example, mainly. Uth’nadas is one of Mythal’s blessings to the people. All love stems from her, but only a chosen few receive this honor. It’s believed that each uth’nadas exists in the form they’re born in to so that they might best remind the world what true love looks like.”

“And you and I were the best they could come up with?” Dorian comments skeptically.

“I’m apparently the best your Maker could come up with when it came time to pick the Herald of Andraste,” you remind him, actually finding it in yourself to smile.

“Point taken. It seems the gods have a sense of humor these days. Explains all the bloody dragons.”

“I don’t know what to believe, Dorian. You have to go back. It’s the right thing to do. Maybe the gods are simply toying with us. Maybe this is all just a combination of my arrogance and magic neither of us fully understand playing us both for fools.”

“And if it is precisely what you believe, what does that mean for us?”

“It means… I don’t know how to make this decision. How do you choose between two right things? How can we be both destined to be together and apart? I know the right path is easy for you to choose. You said it yourself, this is all just the stuff of stories to you. But for me it’s more than that. I can’t stop believing something just because it’s become inconvenient.”

Dorian doesn’t reply. Not that you think there’s anything he could say. You turn to go back to him, ready to finish the healing process and get back to the real world, only to find that Dorian’s gone.

“Dorian?”

The next moment you’re pulled off your feet, hit by a force as strong and as disorienting as a riptide pulling you under. You fight, trying to right yourself against an ever-changing gravitational pull. The world finally realligns and it takes you a moment to realize where you are.

“Welcome back,” Solas says, a steadying hand on your shoulder.

“Where’s Dorian?”

A hand finds yours, one you know without having to look.

“I’m here, amatus. I’m here.”

-

“It’s certainly a rift, but closing it now will not cause the construct to abate,” Solas observes, one hand resting on the trunk of the tree.

“Why not?” Cassandra demands to know.

“Because it is not the rift which maintains the construct but the spirits which passed through them. They’re a part of the construct now. To send them back will take time, energy, and a careful study of what was done here. If the Inquisitor would like to divert valuable resources to that end, I’m certain he could do so.”

“And if I don’t? What risk does this pose to those who might happen upon it?”

“Protection was at the center of this spell, not violence. The spirits called remain pure to that purpose. Of course, the trouble is how one defines just protection from a mortal standpoint. As we have all learned from Cole, morality as we would understand it requires a system of judgement and comprehension that does not come naturally to spirits."

“They like it here. They’re like me now,” Cole says, joining the conversation unexpectedly, as he always does. “They’re not here to hurt, only to help.”

“Well, if that’s the case, why not leave it?” Dorian says. “Our alternative being what it is, that seems like the best choice. The Western Approach is far removed from civilization. It's far from the most dangerous addition to the natural habitat here. And who knows? It might prove useful one day. If nothing else, it will certainly prove interesting to study.”

"I agree," Vivienne says. "We have neither the time nor the resources to devote to solving this particular disaster at the moment. It should be addressed some day, but perhaps that is a task better left to those more qualified in areas of arcane study than the Inquisition. We must keep our eyes on our primary goal."

"We move on in the morning. Cassandra, call off everyone you've assigned to studying the construct."

That, it seems, is more or less the final word on the subject. The others move on, engaged with their own tasks. You meet Vivienne's eyes as she turns to leave. You feel you should speak to her, but you can't find the words. Maybe that too is a problem better left for another day.

“It really is a mess out there, Dorian.”

“We’ve kept the ones that matter. That’s all that’s important.”

You hum quietly in response. Perhaps he’s right and perhaps he isn’t. You've made your decisions. All that's left is to learn how to live with them.

“I won’t leave immediately, you know,” Dorian says, and it’s the first word you’ve spoken on the subject since he woke. “After Corypheus is defeated, I mean. I don’t plan on skipping out on the big celebration after all that hard work.”

“Oh? I thought you believed we were all going to die.”

“What can I say? I’ve reassessed our odds. The more we learn about the enemy, the better things look for the heroes of this little tale. Besides, if fate wills that we're destined for one another... You know I'm hardly one for optimism, but I rather think that means we'll find a way no matter what it takes, don't you?"

You smile, “Perhaps it does at that.”


End file.
